Dorothy formed many plans for future usefulness during her walk home, nor had she the least suspicion of the different field in which her labours of love would be required.
Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently insignificant tumour. "Too small," the old lady said, "to make a fuss about." She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy, "that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience."
Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical practitioner of Storby. This the old lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still wet upon her cheeks.
"My darling mother, what is the matter?" cried the affectionate girl, stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. "Are you ill?"
"More in mind than body," returned the good woman, trying to smile. "Oh, Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father to drive me over to see the doctor."
"Well, and what did he say?" asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere's lips quivered.
"Dolly, I don't like to tell you. It will grieve you sore."
Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her mother's hand tighter in her own.
"He said it was a cancer." The old lady spoke slowly and with difficulty. "That it had been suffered to go too far, and at my age any operation in such a dangerous part was useless."
There was a long pause, only broken by the low sobbing of the two women.